|E 457 

.9 

.05715 
Copy 2 



Lincoln 



PERFECT TRIBUTE 




MARY EAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS 



^ 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 



THE 

PERFECT TRIBUTE 

BY 

Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews 



NEW YORK 

Charles Scribner's Sons 

1907 



Copyright^ 1906, by Charles Scribner's Sons 



Published, September, 1906 A 

6» 



•1 ...< 






li'^ 






lO^ 



BSOUETST 
RT= KErV„ JUL<uo V/, ATWCCD 
JUNE 5, 594.5 



27i^ Ttovo Press y New York 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 

ON the morning of November 
18, 1863, a special train drew 
out from Washington, car- 
rying a distinguished company. The 
presence with them of the JNIarine 
Band from the Navy Yard spoke a 
pubhc occasion to come, and among 
the travellers there were those who 
might be gathered only for an oc- 
casion of importance. There were 
judges of the Supreme Court of the 
United States; there were heads of 
departments ; the general - in - chief 
of the army and his staff ; members of 
the cabinet. In their midst, as they 
stood about the car before settling for 
the journey, towered a man sad, pre- 

[1] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
occupied, unassuming; a man awk- 
ward and ill-dressed; a man, as he 
leaned slouchingly against the wall, 
of no grace of look or manner, in 
whose haggard face seemed to be the 
suiFering of the sins of the world. 
Abraham Lincoln, President of the 
United States, journeyed with his 
party to assist at the consecration, the 
next day, of the national cemetery 
at Gettysburg. The quiet November 
landscape slipped past the rattling 
train, and the President's deep-set 
eyes stared out at it gravely, a bit 
listlessly. From time to time he 
talked with those who were about 
him; from time to time there were 
flashes of that quaint wit which is 
linked, as his greatness, with his 
name, but his mind was to-day dispir- 
ited, unhopeful. The weight on his 

[2] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
shoulders seemed pressing more heav- 
ily than he had courage to press back 
against it, the responsibility of one 
almost a dictator in a wide, war-torn 
country came near to crushing, at 
times, the mere human soul and body. 
There was, moreover, a speech to be 
made to-morrow to thousands w^ho 
would expect their President to say 
something to them worth the listen- 
ing of a people who were making his- 
tory; something brilliant, eloquent, 
strong. The melancholy gaze glit- 
tered with a grim smile. He — Abra- 
ham Lincoln — the lad bred in a cabin, 
tutored in rough schools here and 
there, fighting for, snatching at 
crumbs of learning that fell from rich 
tables, struggling to a hard knowl- 
edge which well knew its own limita- 
tions — it was he of whom this was 

[31 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
expected. He glanced across the car. 
Edward Everett sat there, the orator 
of the following day, the finished 
gentleman, the careful student, the 
heir of traditions of learning and 
breeding, of scholarly instincts and 
resources. The self-made President 
gazed at him wistfully. From him 
the people might expect and would 
get a balanced and polished oration. 
For that end he had been born, and 
inheritance and opportunity and in- 
clination had worked together for 
that end's perfection. While Lincoln 
had wrested from a scanty schooling 
a command of English clear and for- 
cible always, but, he feared, rough- 
hewn, lacking, he feared, in finish 
and in breadth — of what use was it 
for such a one to try to fashion a 
speech fit to take a place by the side 

[4] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
of Everett's silver sentences? He 
sighed. Yet the people had a right 
to the best he could give, and he would 
give them his best; at least he could 
see to it that the words were real and 
were short; at least he would not, 
so, exhaust their patience. And the 
work might as well be done now in 
the leisure of the journey. He put a 
hand, big, powerful, labor-knotted, 
into first one sagging pocket and then 
another, in search of a pencil, and 
drew out one broken across the end. 
He glanced about inquiringly — there 
was nothing to write upon. Across 
the car the Secretary of State had 
just opened a package of books and 
their wrapping of brown paper lay 
on the floor, torn carelessly in a zig- 
zag. The President stretched a long 
arm. 

[5] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
"Mr. Seward, may I have this to 
do a little writing?" he asked, and the 
Secretary protested, insisting on find- 
ing better material. 

But Lincoln, with few words, had 
his way, and soon the untidy stump 
of a pencil was at work and the great 
head, the deep-lined face, bent over 
Seward's bit of brown paper, the 
whole man absorbed in his task. 

Earnestly, with that "capacity for 
taking infinite pains" which has been 
defined as genius, he labored as the 
hours flew, building together close- 
fitted word on word, sentence on sen- 
tence. As the sculptor must dream 
the statue prisoned in the marble, as 
the artist must dream the picture to 
come from the brilliant unmeaning ' 
of his palette, as the musician dreams 
a song, so he who writes must have a 

[6] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
vision of his finished work before he 
touches, to begin it, a medium more 
elastic, more vivid, more powerful 
than any other — words — prismatic 
bits of humanity, old as the Pharaohs, 
new as the Arabs of the street, 
broken, sparkling, alive, from the 
age-long life of the race. Abraham 
Lincoln, with the clear thought in his 
mind of what he would sav, found 
the sentences that came to him color- 
less, wooden. A wonder flashed over 
him once or twice of Everett's skill 
with these symbols which, it seemed to 
him, were to the Bostonian akey-board 
facile to make music, to Lincoln tools 
to do his labor. He put the idea aside, 
for it hindered him. As he found the 
sword fitted to his hand he must fight 
with it; it might be that he, as well 
as Everett, could say that which 

[7] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
should go straight from him to his 
people, to the nation who struggled 
at his back towards a goal. At least 
each syllable he said should be chis- 
elled from the rock of his sincerity. 
So he cut here and there an adjective, 
here and there a phrase, baring the 
heart of his thought, leaving no rib- 
bon or flower of rhetoric to flutter in 
the eyes of those with whom he would 
be utterly honest. And when he had 
done he read the speech and dropped 
it from his hand to the floor and 
stared again from the window. It was 
the best he could do, and it was a fail- 
ure. So, with the pang of the work- 
man who believes his work done 
wrong, he lifted and folded the torn 
bit of paper and put it in his pocket, 
and put aside the thought of it, as 
of a bad thing which he might not 

[8] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
better, and turned and talked cheer- 
fully with his friends. 

At eleven o'clock on the morning of 
the day following, on November 19, 
1863, a vast, silent multitude bil- 
lowed, like waves of the sea, over 
what had been not long before the 
battle-field of Gettysburg. There 
were wounded soldiers there who had 
beaten their way four months before 
through a singing fire across these 
quiet fields, who had seen the men die 
who were buried here; there were 
troops, grave and responsible, who 
must soon go again into battle; there 
were the rank and file of an every- 
day American gathering in surging 
thousands; and above them all, on 
the open-air platform, there were the 
leaders of the land, the pilots who to- 
day lifted a hand from the wheel of 

[9] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
the ship of state to sakite the memory 
of those gone down in the storm. 
Most of the men in that group of 
honor are now passed over to the ma- 
jority, but their names are not dead 
in American history — great ghosts 
who walk still in the annals of their 
country, their flesh-and-blood faces 
were turned attentively that bright, 
still November afternoon towards the 
orator of the day, whose voice held 
the audience. 

For two hours Everett spoke and 
the throng listened untired, fasci- 
nated by the dignity of his high-bred 
look and manner almost as much, 
perhaps, as by the speech which has 
taken a place in literature. As he had 
been expected to speak he spoke, of 
the great battle, of the causes of the 
war, of the results to come after. It 

[10] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
was an oration which missed no shade 
of expression, no reach of grasp. Yet 
there were those in tlie multitude, 
sympathetic to a unit as it was with 
the Northern cause, who grew restless 
when this man who had been crowned 
with so thick a laurel wreath by 
Americans spoke of Americans as 
rebels, of a cause for which honest 
Americans were giving their lives as 
a crime. The days were war days, and 
men's passions were inflamed, yet 
there were men who listened to Ed- 
ward Everett who believed that his 
great speech would have been greater 
unenforced with bitterness. 

As the clear, cultivated voice fell 
into silence, the mass of people burst 
into a long storm of applause, for 
they knew that they had heard an 
oration which was an event. They 
[11] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
clapped and cheered him again and 
again and again, as good citizens ac- 
claim a man worthy of honor whom 
they have delighted to honor. At last, 
as the ex-Governor of Massachusetts, 
the ex-ambassador to England, the 
ex- Secretary of State, the ex- Senator 
of the United States — handsome, dis- 
tinguished, graceful, sure of voice 
and of movement — took his seat, a 
tall, gaunt figure detached itself 
from the group on the platform and 
slouched slowly across the open space 
and stood facing the audience. A stir 
and a whisper brushed over the field 
of humanity, as if a breeze had rip- 
pled a monstrous bed of poppies. 
This was the President. A quivering 
silence settled down and every eye 
was wide to watch this strange, dis- 
appointing appearance, every ear 

[12] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
alert to catch the first sound of his 
voice. Suddenly the voice came, in a 
queer, squeaking falsetto. The effect 
on the audience was irrepressible, 
ghastly. After Everett's deep tones, 
after the strain of expectancy, this 
extraordinary, gaunt apparition, this 
high, thin sound from the huge body, 
were too much for the American 
crowd's sense of humor, always 
stronger than its sense of reverence. 
A suppressed yet unmistakable titter 
caught the throng, ran through it, 
and was gone. Yet no one who knew 
the President's face could doubt that 
he had heard it and had understood. 
Calmly enough, after a pause almost 
too slight to be recognized, he went 
on, and in a dozen words his tones had 
gathered volume, he had come to his 
power and dignity. There was no 

[13] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 

smile now on any face of those who 
listened. People stopped breathing 
rather, as if they feared to miss an 
inflection. A loose-hung figure, six 
feet four inches high, he towered 
above them, conscious of and quietly 
ignoring the bad first impression, un- 
conscious of a charm of personality 
which reversed that impression within 
a sentence. That these were his people 
was his only thought. He had some- 
thing to say to them ; what did it mat- 
ter about him or his voice? 

"Fourscore and seven years ago," 
spoke the President, "our fathers 
brought forth on this continent a new 
nation, conceived in liberty and dedi- 
cated to the proposition that all men 
are created equal. Now we are en- 
gaged in a great civil war, testing 
whether that nation, or any nation, so 

[14] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
conceived and so dedicated, can long 
endure. We are met on a great battle- 
field of that war. We have come to 
dedicate a portion of it as a final rest- 
ing-place for those who here gave 
their lives that that nation might live. 
It is altogether fitting and proper 
that we should do this. 

"But in a larger sense we cannot 
dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we 
cannot hallow, this ground. The 
brave men, living and dead, who 
struggled here, have consecrated it 
far above our poor power to add or 
to detract. The world will little note 
nor long remember what we say here, 
but it can never forget what they did 
here. It is for us, the living, rather, 
to be dedicated here to the unfinished 
work which they who fought here 
have thus far so nobly advanced. It 

[15] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
IS rather for us to be here dedicated 
to the great task remaining before us 
— that from these honored dead we 
take increased devotion to that cause 
for which they here gave the last full 
measure of devotion — that we here . 
highly resolve that these dead shall 
not have died in vain, that this na- 
tion, under God, shall have a new 
birth of freedom, and that govern- 
ment of the people, by the people, for 
the people shall not perish from the 
earth." 

There was no sound from the silent, 
vast assembly. The President's large 
figure stood before them, at first in- 
spired, glorified with the thrill and 
swing of his words, lapsing slowly in 
the stillness into lax, ungraceful lines. 
He stared at them a moment with 
sad eyes full of gentleness, of resig- 

[16] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
nation, and in the deep quiet they 
stared at him.. Not a hand was hfted 
in applause. Slowly the big, awkward 
man slouched back across the plat- 
form and sank into his seat, and yet 
there was no sound of approval, of 
recognition from the audience; only 
a long sigh ran like a ripple on an 
ocean through rank after rank. In 
Lincoln's heart a throb of pain an- 
swered it. His speech had been, as he 
feared it would be, a failure. As he 
gazed steadily at these his country- 
men who would not give him even a 
little perfunctory applause for his 
best effort, he knew that the disap- 
pointment of it cut into his soul. And 
then he was aware that there was 
music, the choir was singing a dirge ; 
his part was done, and his part had 
failed. 

[17] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 

When the ceremonies were over 
Everett at once found the President. 
"Mr. President," he began, "your 
speech—" but Lincoln had inter- 
rupted, flashing a kindly smile down 
at him, laying a hand on his shoulder. 

"We'll manage not to talk about my 
speech, Mr. Everett," he said. "This 
isn't the first time I've felt that my 
dignity ought not to permit me to be 
a public speaker." 

He went on in a few cordial sen- 
tences to pay tribute to the orator 
of the occasion. Everett listened 
thoughtfully and when the chief had 
done, "Mr. President," he said sim- 
ply, "I should be glad if I could flat- 
ter myself that I came as near the 
central idea of the occasion in two 
hours as you did in two minutes." 

But Lincoln shook his head and 

[181 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
laughed and turned to speak to a 
newcomer with no change of opinion 
— he was apt to trust his own judg- 
ments. 

The special train which left Gettys- 
burg immediately after the solemni- 
ties on the battle-field cemetery 
brought the President's party into 
Washington during the night. There 
was no rest for the man at the wheel 
of the nation next day, but rather 
added work until, at about four in 
the afternoon, he felt sorely the need 
of air and went out from the White 
House alone, for a walk. His mind 
still ran on the events of the day 
before — the impressive, quiet multi- 
tude, the serene sky of November 
arched, in the hushed interregnum of 
the year, between the joy of summer 
and the war of winter, over those who 

[19] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 

had gone from earthly war to heav- 
enly joy. The picture was deeply en- 
' graved in his memory; it haunted 
him. And with it came a soreness, a 
discomfort of mind which had haunted 
him as well in the hours between — 
the chagrin of the failure of his 
speech. During the day he had gently 
but decisively put aside all reference 
to it from those about him; he had 
glanced at the head-lines in the news- 
papers with a sarcastic smile; the 
Chief Executive must be flattered, 
of course; newspaper notices meant 
nothing. He knew well that he had 
made many successful speeches; no 
man of his shrewdness could be igno- 
rant that again and again he had car- 
ried an audience by storm ; yet he had 
no high idea of his own speech- 
making, and yesterday's affair had 

[20] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
shaken his confidence more. He re- 
membered sadly that, even for the 
President, no hand, no voice had been 
hfted in applause. 

"It must have been pretty poor 
stuff," he said half aloud; "yet I 
thought it was a fair little composi- 
tion. I meant to do well by them." 

His long" strides had carried him 
into the outskirts of the city, and sud- 
denlv, at a corner, from behind a 
hedge, a young boy of fifteen years 
or so came rushing toward him and 
tripped and stumbled against him, 
and Lincoln kept him from falling 
with a quick, vigorous arm. The lad 
righted himself and tossed back his 
thick, light hair and stared haugh- 
tily, and the President, regarding 
him, saw that his blue eyes were blind 
with tears. 

[21] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
"Do you want all of the public 
highway? Can't a gentleman from 
the South even walk in the streets 
without — without — " and the broken 
sentence ended in a sob. 

The anger and the insolence of the 
lad were nothing to the man who tow- 
ered above him — to that broad mind 
this was but a child in trouble. "My 
boy, the fellow that's interfering with 
your walking is down inside of you," 
he said gently, and with that the as- 
tonished youngster opened his wet 
eyes wide and laughed — a choking, 
childish laugh that pulled at the older 
man's heart-strings. "That's better, 
sonny," he said, and patted the slim 
shoulder. "Now tell me what's wrong 
with the world. Maybe I might help 
straighten it." 
"Wrong, wrong!" the child raved; 

[22] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 

"ever}i:liing's wrong," and launched 
into a mad tirade a[^ainst the govern- 
ment from the President down. 

Lincohi Hstened patiently, and when 
the lad paused for breath, "Go 
ahead," he said good-naturedly. 
"Every little helps." 

With that the youngster was silent 
and drew himself up with stiff dig- 
nity, offended yet fascinated; un- 
able to tear himself away from this 
strange giant who was so insultingly 
kind under his abuse, who yet inspired 
him with such a sense of trust and 
of hope. 

"I want a lawyer," he said impul- 
sively, looking up anxiously into 
the deep-lined face inches above him. 
"I don't know where to find a lawyer 
in this horrible city, and I must have 
one — I can't wait — it may be too late 

[23] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
— I want a lawyer now,'' and once 
more he was in a fever of excitement. 

"What do you want with a lawyer?" 
Again the calm^ friendly tone quieted 
him. 

"I want him to draw a will. My 
brother is — " he caught his breath 
with a gasp in a desperate effort for 
self-control. "They say he's — dying." 
He finished the sentence with a quiver 
in his voice, and the brave front and 
the trembling, childish tone went to 
the man's heart. "I don't believe it — • 
he can't be dying," the boy talked 
on, gathering courage. "But any- 
way, he wants to make a will, and — 
and I reckon — it may be that he — he 
must." 

"I see," the other answered gravely, 
and the young, torn soul felt an un- 
reasoning confidence that he had 

[24] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
found a friend. "Where is your 
brother?" 

"He's in the prison hospital there — 
in that big building," he pointed 
down the street. "He's captain in our 
army — in the Confederate army. He 
was w^ounded at Gettysburg." 

"Oh!" The deep-set eyes gazed 
dow^n at the fresh face, its muscles 
straining under grief and responsi- 
bility, with the gentlest, most father- 
ly pity. "I think I can manage your 
job, my boy," he said. "I used to 
practise law in a small way myself, 
and I'll be glad to draw the will for 
you." 

The young fellow had whirled him 
around before he had finished the sen- 
tence. "Come," he said. "Don't waste 
time talking — why didn't you tell me 
before?" and then he glanced up. He 

[25] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
saw the ill-fitting clothes, the crag- 
like, rough-modelled head, the awk- 
ward carriage of the man ; he was too 
young to know Ihat what he felt be- 
yond these was greatness. There was 
a tone of patronage in his voice and 
in the cock of his aristocratic young 
head as he spoke. "We can pay you, 
you know — we're not paupers." He 
fixed his eves on Lincoln's face to 
watch the impression as he added, 
"My brother is Carter Hampton 
Blair, of Georgia. I'm Warrington 
Blair. The Hampton Court Blairs, 
you know." 

"Oh!" said the President. 

The lad went on: 

"It would have been all right if Nel- 
lie hadn't left Washington to-day — 
my sister, JNIiss Eleanor Hampton 
Blair. Carter was better this morning, 

[26] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
and so she went with the Sena- 
tor. She's secretary to Senator War- 
rington, you know. He's on the Yan- 
kee side" — the tone was full of con- 
tempt — "but yet he's our cousin, and 
when he offered Nellie the position 
she would take it in spite of Carter 
and me. We were so poor" — the lad's 
pride was off its guard for the mo- 
ment, melted in the soothing trust 
with which this stranger thrilled his 
soul. It was a relief to him to talk, 
and the large hand which rested on 
his shoulder as they walked seemed an 
assurance that his words were accord- 
ed respect and understanding. "Of 
course, if Nellie had been here she 
would haye known how to get a law- 
yer, but Carter had a bad turn half 
an hour ago, and the doctor said he 
might get better or he might die 

[27] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 

any minute, and Carter remembered 
about the money, and got so excited 
that they said it was hurting him, so 
I said I'd get a lawyer, and I rushed 
out, and the first thing I ran against 
you. I'm afraid I wasn't very pohte." 
The smile on the gaunt face above 
him was all the answer he needed. 
"I'm sorry. I apologize. It certainly 
was good of you to come right back 
with me." The child's manner was 
full of the assured graciousness of a 
high-born gentleman; there was a 
lovable quality in his very patronage, 
and the suffering and the sweetness 
and the pride combined held Lincoln 
by his sense of humor as well as by his 
soft heart. "You sha'n't lose anything 
by it," the youngster went on. "We 
may be poor, but we have more than 
plenty to pay you, I'm sure. Nellie 

[28] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
has some jewels, you see — oh, I think 
several things yet. Is it very expen- 
sive to draw a will?" he asked wist- 
fully. 

"No, sonny; it's one of the cheap- 
est things a man can do," was the hur- 
ried answer, and the child's tone 
showed a lighter heart. 

"I'm glad of that, for, of course, 
Carter wants to leave — to leave as 
much as he can. You see, that's what 
the will is about — Carter is engaged 
to marry Miss Sally Maxfield, and 
they would have been married now if 
he hadn't been wounded and taken 
prisoner. So, of course, like any gen- 
tleman that's engaged, he wants to 
give her everything that he has. 
Hampton Court has to come to me 
after Carter, but there's some money 
— quite a lot — only we can't get it 

[29] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 

now And that ought to go to Car- 
ter's wife, which is what she is — just 
about — and if he doesn't make a will 
it won't. It will come to Nellie and 
me if — if anything should happen to 
Carter." 

"So you're worrying for fear you'll 
inherit some money?" Lincoln asked 
meditatively. 

*'Of course," the boy threw back im- 
patiently. "Of course, it would be a 
shame if it came to Nellie and me, for 
we couldn't ever make her take it. We 
don't need it — I can look after Nel- 
lie and myself," Le said proudly, with 
a quick, tossiiig motion of his fair 
head that was like the motion of a 
spirited, thoroughbred horse. They 
had arrived at the prison. "I can get 
you through all right. They all know 
me here," he spoke over his shoulder 

[30] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
reassuringly to the President with a 
friendly glance. Dashing down the 
corridors in front, he did not see the 
guards salute the tall figure which 
followed him; too preoccupied to 
wonder at the ease of their entrance, 
he flew along through the big' build- 
ing, and behind him in large strides 
came his friend. 

A young man — almost a boy, too — 
of twenty-three or twenty-four, his 
handsome face a white shadow, lay 
propped against the pillows, watch- 
ing the door eagerly as they entered. 

"Good boy, Warry," he greeted the 
little fellow; "you've got me a law- 
yer," and the pale features lighted 
with a smile of such radiance as 
seemed incongruous in this gruesome 
place. He held out his hand to the 
man who swung toward him, loom- 

[31] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
ing mountainous behind his brother's 
shght figure. "Thank you for com- 
ing," he said cordially, and in his tone 
was the same air of a grand seigneur 
as in the lad's. Suddenly a spasm of 
pain caught him, his head fell into 
the pillows, his muscles twisted, his 
arm about the neck of the kneeling 
boy tightened convulsively. Yet while 
the agony still held him he was smil- 
ing again with gay courage. "It 
nearly blew me away," he whispered, 
his voice shaking, but his eyes bright 
with amusement. "We'd better get to 
work before one of those little breezes 
carries me too far. There's pen and 
ink on the table, Mr. — my brother did 
not tell me your name." 

"Your brother and I met informal- 
ly," the other answered, setting the 
materials in order for writing. "He 

[32] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
charged into me like a young steer," 
and the boy, out of his deep trouble, 
laughed delightedly. "My name is 
Lincoln." 

The young officer regarded him. 
"That's a good name from your 
standpoint — you are, I take it, a 
Northerner?" 

The deep eyes smiled whimsically. 
"I'm on that side of the fence. You 
may call me a Yankee if you'd like." 

"There's something about you, Mr. 
Lincoln," the young Georgian an- 
swered gravely, with a kindly and 
unconscious condescension, "which 
makes me wish to call you, if I may, 
a friend." 

He had that happy instinct which 
shapes a sentence to fall on its 
smoothest surface, and the President, 
in whom the same instinct was strong, 

[33] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
felt a quick comradeship with this 
enemy who, about to die, saluted him. 
He put out his great fist swiftly. 

"Shake hands," he said. "Friends it 
is." 

" 'Till death us do part,' " said the 
officer slowly, and smiled, and then 
threw back his head with a gesture 
like the boy's. "We must do the will," 
he said peremptorily. 

"Yes, now we'll ^x this will busi- 
ness. Captain Blair," the big man 
answered cheerfully. "When your 
mind's relieved about your plunder 
you can rest easier and get well 
faster." 

The sweet, brilliant smile of the 
Southerner shone out, his arm drew 
the boy's shoulder closer, and the 
President, with a pang, knew that his 
friend knew that he must die. 

[34] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
With direct, condensed question 
and clear answer the simple will was 
shortly drawn and the impromptu 
lawyer rose to take his leave. But the 
w^ounded man put out his hand. 

"Don't go yet," he pleaded, wdth the 
imperious, winning accent which was 
characteristic of both brothers. The 
sudden, radiant smile broke again 
over the face, young, drawn with suf- 
fering, prophetic of close death. "I 
like you," he brought out frankly. 
"I've never liked a stranger as much 
in such short order before." 

His head, fair as the boy's, lay back 
on the pillows, locks of hair damp 
against the whiteness, the blue eyes 
shone like jewels from the colorless 
face, a weak arm stretched protect- 
ingly about the young brother who 
pressed against him. There was so 

[35] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
much courage, so much helplessness, 
so much pathos in the picture that the 
President's great heart throbbed with 
a desire to comfort them. 

"I want to talk to you about that 
man Lincoln, your namesake," the 
prisoner's deep, uncertain voice went 
on, trying pathetically to make con- 
versation which might interest, might 
hold his guest. The man who stood 
hesitating controlled a startled move- 
ment. "I'm Southern to the core of 
me, and I believe with my soul in 
the cause I've fought for, the cause 
I'm — " he stopped, and his hand 
caressed the boy's shoulder. "But that 
President of yours is a remarkable 
man. He's regarded as a red devil by 
most of us down home, you know," 
and he laughed, "but I've admired 
him ail along. He's inspired by prin- 

[36] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
ciple, not by animosity, in this fight; 
he's real and he's powerful and" — 
he lifted his head impetuously and his 
eyes flashed — "and, by Jove, have 
you read his speech of yesterday in 
the papers?" 

Lincoln gave him an odd look. 
"Xo," he said, "I haven't." 

"Sit down," Blair commanded. 
"Don't grudge a few m_inutes to a 
man in hard luck. I want to tell you 
about that speech. You're not so busy 
but that you ought to know." 

"Well, yes," said Lincoln, "perhaps 
I ought." He took out his watch and 
made a quick mental calculation. "It's 
only a question of going without my 
dinner, and the boy is dying," he 
thought. "If I can give him a little 
pleasure the dinner is a small mat- 
ter." He spoke again. "It's the sol- 

[37] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
diers who are the busy men, not the 
lawyers, nowadays," he said. "I'll be 
delighted to spend a half hour with 
you, Captain Blair, if I won't tire 
you." 

"That's good of you," the young 
officer said, and a king on his throne 
could not have been gracious in a 
more lordly yet unconscious way. "By 
the way, this great man isn't any re- 
lation of yours, is he, Mr. Lincoln?" 

"He's a kind of connection — 
through my grandfather," Lincoln 
acknowledged. "But I know just the 
sort of fellow he is — you can say what 
you want." 

"What I want to say first is this: 
that he yesterday made one of the 
great speeches of history." 

"What? " demanded Lincoln, star- 
ing. 

[38] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
"I know what I'm talking about." 
The young fellow brought his thin 
fist down on the bedclothes. "^ly 
father was a speaker — all my uncles 
and my grandfather were speakers. 
I've been brought up on oratory. I've 
studied and read the best models since 
I was a lad in knee-breeches. And 
I know a great speech when I see 
it. And when Nellie — my sister — 
brought in the paper this morning 
and read that to me I told her at once 
that not six times since history began 
has a speech been made which was its 
equal. That was before she told me 
what the Senator said." 

"What did the Senator say?" asked 
the quiet man who listened. 

"It was Senator Warrington, to 
whom my sister is — is acting as secre- 
tary." The explanation was distaste- 

[39] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
fill, but he went on, carried past the 
jog by the interest of his story. "He 
was at Gettysburg yesterday, with the 
President's party. He told my sister 
that the speech so went home to the 
hearts of all those thousands of peo- 
ple that w^hen it was ended it was as 
if the whole audience held its breath 
— there was not a hand lifted to ap- 
plaud. One might as well applaud the 
Lord's Prayer — it would have been 
sacrilege. And they all felt it — down 
to the lowest. There was a long min- 
ute of reverent silence, no sound 
from all that great throng — it seems 
to me, an enemy, that it was the most 
perfect tribute that has ever been 
paid by any people to any orator." 

The boy, lifting his hand from his 
brother's shoulder to mark the effect 
of his brother's words, saw with sur- 

[40] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
prise that in the strange lawyer's eyes 
were tears. But the wounded man did 
not notice. 

"It will live, that speech. Fifty 
years from now American school- 
boys will be learning it as part of 
their education. It is not merely my 
opinion," he went on. "Warrington 
says the whole comitry is ringing 
with it. And you haven't read it? 
And your name's Lincoln? Warry, 
boy, where's the paper Nellie left? 
I'll read the speech to Mr. Lincoln 
myself." 

The boy had sprung to his feet and 
across the room, and had lifted a 
folded newspaper from the table. 
"Let me read it. Carter — it might tire 

you." 

The giant figure which had 
crouched, elbows on knees, in the 

[41] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
shadows by the narrow hospital cot, 
heaved itself slowly upward till it 
loomed at its full height in air. Lin- 
coln turned his face toward the boy 
standing under the flickering gas-jet 
and reading with soft, sliding in- 
flections the words which had for 
twenty-four hours been gall and 
wormwood to his memory. And as the 
sentences slipped from the lad's 
mouth, behold, a miracle happened, 
for the man who had written them 
knew that they were great. He knew 
then, as many a lesser one has known, 
that out of a little loving-kindness 
had come great joy; that he had 
wrested with gentleness a blessing 
from his enemy. 

" 'Fourscore and seven years ago,' " 
the fresh voice began, and the face of 
the dying man stood out white in the 

[42] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
white pillows, sharp with eagerness, 
and the face of the President shone 
as he listened as if to new w^ords. The 
field of yesterday, the speech, the 
deep silence which followed it, all 
were illuminated, as his mind went 
back, with new meaning. With the 
realization that the stillness had 
meant, not indiiFerence, but perhaps, 
as this generous enemy had said, 
"The most perfect tribute ever paid 
by any people to any orator," there 
came to him a rush of glad strength 
to bear the burdens of the nation. 
The boy's tones ended clearlj^, delib- 
erately : 

" 'We here highly resolve that these 
dead shall not have died in vain, that 
this nation, mider God, shall have a 
new birth of freedom, and that gov- 
ernment of the people, by the people, 

[43] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 

for the people shall not perish from 
the earth.' " 

There was deep stillness in the hos- 
pital ward as there had been stillness 
on the field of Gettysburg. The sol- 
dier's voice broke it. "It's a wonder- 
ful speech," he said. "There's noth- 
ing finer. Other men have spoken 
stirring words, for the North and for 
the South, but never before, I think, 
with the love of both breathing 
through them. It is only the greatest 
who can be a partisan without bitter- 
ness, and only such to-day may call 
himself not Northern or Southern, 
but American. To feel that your ene- 
my can fight you to death without 
malice, with charity — it lifts country, 
it lifts hmnanity to something worth 
dying for. They are beautiful, broad 
words and the sting of war would be 

[44] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
drawn if the soul of Lincoln could be 
breathed into the armies. Do you 
agree with me?" he demanded ab- 
ruptly, and Lincoln answered slowly, 
from a happy heart. 

"I believe it is a good speech," he 
said. 

The impetuous Southerner went on : 
"Of course, it's all wrong from my 
point of view," and the gentleness of 
his look made the words charming. 
"The thought which underlies it is 
warped, inverted, as I look at it, yet 
that doesn't alter my admiration of 
the man and of his words. I'd like to 
put my hand in his before I die," he 
said, and the sudden, brilliant, sweet 
smile lit the transparency of his face 
like a lamp ; "and I'd like to tell him 
that I know that what we're all fight- 
ing for, the best of us, is the right of 

[45] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
our country as it is given us to see it." 
He was laboring a bit with the words 
now as if he were tired, but he hushed 
the boy imperiously. "When a man 
gets so close to death's door that he 
feels the wind through it from a 
larger atmosphere, then the small 
things are blown away. The bitter- 
ness of the fight has faded for me. I 
only feel the love of country, the sat- 
isfaction of giving my life for it. The 
speech — that speech — has made it 
look higher and simpler — your side as 
well as ours. I would like to put my 

hand in Abraham Lincoln's " 

The clear, deep voice, with its hesi- 
tations, its catch of weakness, 
stopped short. Convulsively the hand 
shot out and caught at the great fin- 
gers that hung near him, pulling 
the President, with the strength of 

[46] 



THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 
agony, to his knees by the cot. The 
prisoner was writhing in an attack of 
mortal pain, while he held, unknow- 
ing that he held it, the hand of his 
new friend in a torturing grip. The 
door of death had opened wide and a 
stormy wind was carrying the bright, 
conquered spirit into that larger at- 
mosphere of which he had spoken. 
Suddenly the struggle ceased, the un- 
conscious head rested in the boy's 
arms, and the hand of the Southern 
soldier lay quiet, where he had wished 
to place it, in the hand of Abraham 
Lincoln. 



[47] 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




012 025 228 8 



